


Poetically

by Opium_du_Peuple



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: A lot of poetic nonsense, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Canon Era, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Hand Jobs, Jehanparnasse week, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-09
Updated: 2016-10-09
Packaged: 2018-08-20 10:50:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8246257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Opium_du_Peuple/pseuds/Opium_du_Peuple
Summary: "At the touch of a lover, everyone becomes a poet." -PlatoThere was nothing poetic about Montparnasse's past experiences. They had been physical urges, a self-serving act for both parties involved. There had been no souls merging, no great passion, no beauty or magic. So little so that Montparnasse doubted he could give Jehan what he wanted. But Jean Prouvaire was worth trying.





	

**Author's Note:**

> While doing research on same-sex intercourse in the 19th century (yes, my life is fascinating like that) I've discovered that full-on penetrative intercourse was less common than let's say frottage or various jobs of any kind, and it sort of planted the premise of that fic in my head. That kind of fact gleaned in class while you should be listening to what's happening has a tendency to stay with you.  
> Anyway
> 
> I hope you'll enjoy it! Have a good read!

The heady glow cloaking Montparnasse's mind was a delight he would never tire of. More than public houses and opium dens, the bedroom was where the real earthly pleasures laid. With half of Jehan's weight on top of him and a hand in his hair, he would gladly call the bed his own share of heaven and, realistically, the only one he would ever get. If heaven didn't have Jean Prouvaire still panting and flushed from climax, Montparnasse didn't want any of it.

"Montparnasse?"

The whisper sounded far too apprehensive to Montparnasse's liking. He turned his gaze towards Jehan. The eyes of the poet were staring right back at him.

"Yes?"

Jehan's lashes fluttered down, and his blush rekindled brightly in the candlelight.

"I―I want you to deflower me."

The wording brought a smile to Montparnasse's lips. He broke into a soft chuckle. Of course that was the word he'd use. The hand caressing Jehan's hips grew more teasing, more insistent.

"I remember doing just that, though," he purred, giving Jehan a string of kisses. "Again. And again. And again. I seem to have lost count. You sounded very enthusiastic, if memory serves."

He could still taste Jehan on his tongue, only adding to the veracity of his words. As expected, Jehan's cheeks crimsoned beautifully to the allusion. In an attempt to hide his embarrassment, he nuzzled Montparnasse's shoulder.

"No, I mean," Jehan tried, stammering slightly, "I mean―You know what I mean."

Oh, Jehan's request was plain as day. As delightful as their touches and kisses were, they were just that. The poet was longing for more than Montparnasse's lips and hands to bring him to completion. And though the suggestion was deeply enticing, Montparnasse couldn't help but feel a tinge of worry weighing his high down. His forehead creasing into a frown, he tilted Jehan's chin up gently.

"Don't I pleasure you enough?" he asked, trying to bury his concern and pride as deeply as he could.

An amused smile danced on Jehan's lips, easing his awkwardness and Montparnasse's doubts. He knew how much of a prideful thing his lover could be. Jehan called it hubris. Montparnasse called it truthful self-regard.

"Of course you do," he laughed softly. "I just―There is something fascinating about the union of two bodies and souls merging together. If poetry stems from pleasure and beauty, I want to see it all. I want to _feel_ it all."

Jehan always spoke of the world in better terms than Montparnasse. One's eyes saw poetry and opportunity for beauty where the other's saw a much grimmer image. Jehan's experience laid in books, in things he had read and fantasies he had dreamt in that beautiful musing mind of his. Montparnasse's experience, though plentiful, was marred with memories he didn't look back upon fondly. It was more carnal and crude than poetic.

"Tomorrow," Montparnasse promised. "Tomorrow I'll deflower you."

 

* * *

 

The planning and preparations took Montparnasse most of the day. He was not aiming for anything less than sheer perfection. 'Too much is better than too little' soon became his motto throughout the day. Jehan wanted―hell, deserved!―poetry in its purest form, and Montparnasse was ready to work for it, he who had made a point never to work for anything in his life. What he knew of poetry, he knew from Jehan. It was not rare for the poet to recite whatever was on his mind, either his own brew or someone else's. Montparnasse knew little of the intricacies behind it, but he had learnt that setting a mood was essential.

Fortunately for him, the market was busy and plentiful. Stealing was always a much smoother endeavour at night, but the matter could not wait until sundown. Save the food stalls, every merchant was paid a visit, unbeknown to them. By the time they realised they were missing this or that, Montparnasse was already out of reach.

Jehan was still at his idealistic gentlemen's club when Montparnasse came back to his lover's lodgings, his arms full of ill-obtained goods. Having a flair for the dramatic and tendency for perfectionism, he then proceeded to arrange and rearrange the bedroom to his liking. This drape had to echo the colour that one, like a rhyme. The candles ought to be spaced evenly, like a meter. The rest, roses and other flourishes, would act as metaphors.

Last but not least, Montparnasse prepared himself. He was good at that, projecting an image of himself he wanted people to see. It came naturally to him after so many years. He knew himself to be handsome and used it to his advantage more often than not. Fate had given him a good face and quick hands to make up for the lack of everything else. He made good use of both.

Slipping on a clean shirt, Montparnasse fiddled excitedly with a carefully wrapped package. He had been waiting for this part all day long. Spreading the soft folds covering his purchase, Montparnasse admired the exquisite fabric and elegant design of his new waistcoat. He usually did not bother with pretexts to get new clothes if he wanted something, he would take it. But any excuse to acquire something new and beautiful was fine by him.

The looking glass reflected a delightful vision, one Montparnasse was pleased with. He smoothed down the fabric of the waistcoat, looking at it from every angle, revelling in how soft it felt under his fingertips. He was so engrossed in self-contemplation that a sound at the door made him jump. Jehan was standing in the small vestibule, his hands busy with his coat.

"Montparnasse?" he called, craning his neck to see beyond the main room.

Jehan's outfit of choice was less refined than his own, Montparnasse noticed as he got closer. Yellow was a tacky colour at best, and those red patterns did nothing to salvage the whole thing. It didn't matter. Soon enough, Jehan wouldn't be wearing anything.

"I wasn't expecting you so early," the poet said, greeting his lover with a bright smile.

"I cleared my evening."

Jehan stood on his tip-toes, no doubt expected a gentle kiss, but Montparnasse's touch exceeded his expectations. _Poetry_ , the latter remembered. _Romance_. He had to be the dashing hero of all those romance novels Jehan and Eponine sometimes indulged in. Cupping his lover's jaw, Montparnasse pressed a fervent kiss onto his lips. A small gasp died between them before Jehan relaxed against him, easing into the pace quickly. His eyes were still closed when Montparnasse pulled away.

Though the kiss left a lingering sweetness in his mouth, he couldn't shake off the acid feeling gnawing at his stomach. It was stupid. He was stupid. Montparnasse had never been nervous about sex before, on the contrary. But the stakes were too high this time, and the fear to disappoint too great. Perfection was always one twist of fate away from disaster. Self-consciousness flooded through him. That was not a sensation he was used to either. It was sickening.

"What's all this?" Jehan asked, barely containing his wonderment .

Standing in the meticulously prepared bedroom, he looked around, his eyes glimmering in the candlelight.

"A shrine," Montparnasse purred in his ear.

The answer received a shy chuckle. Jehan marvelled at the rose petals scattered on the bed, brushing the delicate rubies with the tip of his fingers.

"It must have been so much work... Parnasse..."

It was not in Montparnasse's nature to be humble. It had been a lot of work indeed, and he would have complained, hadn't his mind been set on sweeter designs. Tilting his lover's chin up, Montparnasse gave him another salve of kisses. He hated how controlled it was, how artificial. He had not built a shrine, he had built a stage for him to perform on. Jehan pulled away quickly.

"Montparnasse, what is it?"

His worried tone breached Montparnasse's carefully tailored character. He smiled nonetheless, his hand stroking Jehan's waist soothingly.

"Nothing. Nothing at all."

"Parnasse," the other insisted.

Montparnasse's smile faltered and his gaze fell, avoiding Jehan's. Perfection crumbled. Not being on top of the situation almost made him feel nauseous, shameful. Jehan's hands covered his, stroking his thumbs lightly.

"We don't have to do this," the poet whispered.

"No!" Montparnasse protested. "No, I want to! I want you! I just―I've never done this... poetically."

It was quite the understatement. There had been nothing poetic about his past experiences. They had been physical urges, a self-serving act for both parties involved. There had been no souls merging, no great passion, no beauty or magic. So little so that Montparnasse doubted he could give Jehan what he wanted.

"Is that what this is all about? Poetry?"

Jehan did not sound mocking, merely lost. Embarrassment burnt Montparnasse's cheeks.

"You're a poet. I thought―You said you wanted beauty, that you would derive poetry from it—from us—and I don't want to give you anything less. What if you look back on this night and there's nothing beautiful or worthwhile about it?"

A hand settled on his cheek, levelling his face with Jehan's. His expression was suddenly too serious for Montparnasse to bear.

"Do you know why poets write about flowers?" he asked softly.

The dandy shook his head.

"Because they're simple. There is beauty in simplicity. Poets create meaning and metaphors, but a flower is just a flower if you leave it on its own. They don't pretend to be anything else. There's no reason why we couldn't make this simple, too."

Simplicity had never taken much space in Montparnasse's life. Living was not simple. Stealing was not simple. Murder demanded a fair amount of skills. Fashion was an art he had had to master. Jehan brought Montparnasse's lips to his own. The kiss was slow, languid, like a lazy summer afternoon. There was no rush in it. It was warm. Simple. Beguiled by its softness, Montparnasse dropped his doubts and pretences. Of all the things in his life, maybe this one could be simple.

Entranced by the comfortable atmosphere, their hands began to wander. Touching was not new by any means, those explorations had been conducted a hundred times, but there was something reassuring in knowing the body of a lover, of knowing the slight hill of a collarbone, the curve of a hip. Montparnasse's hand played on Jehan's back, his fingers trailing down his spine down to his waist. Another pair of hands was busy on his chest, tracing the pattern of his precious garment.

"Careful," Montparnasse warned gently. "It's brand new. I _bought_ it."

There was a certain pride in his words. He had bought it. That waistcoat was his by right, unlike most of his clothes. Jehan smiled against his lips.

"Did you now?"

"Are you doubting my integrity?" Montparnasse played along.

"Oh, monsieur, I wouldn't dare!"

His coy expression made Montparnasse's heart beat faster. Jehan caressed the fabric like one caresses a lover.

"Shall I leave you and your waistcoat alone, then?" he teased.

"I'd prefer that over wearing that monstrosity."

Montparnasse tugged the collar of the horrid thing Jehan dared to wear outside, making a disgusted face at the yellowish mess. Prompted upwards, the poet lifted his heels off the ground, his mouth hovering alluringly over Montparnasse's.

"Take it off, then."

Undressing Jehan would be his pleasure. It'd be killing two birds with one stone: he'd get rid of that atrocity and it was a layer of clothing out of his way. His fingers were experimented enough to undo the buttons without looking at them. Instead, his gaze held Jehan's, almost challenging him. In a swift motion, the waistcoat was gone. His own required more care. Montparnasse took it off himself and hung it lovingly to the back of a chair.

"You fussy little thing," he heard Jehan sigh before being pushed onto the bed.

Disoriented by the sudden lack of balance, Montparnasse was soon grounded by the poet's weight. Jehan's lips came down from the heavens, dropping a rain of kisses onto his mouth. Some of them rolled down his neck, like pearls shining against his throat. Jehan was more audacious than his shy exterior would let on. Months of gentle touches and fondling had taught Montparnasse not to judge a book by its cover. Jean Prouvaire could be the devil, if he put his mind to it. His wicked hands were already on Montparnasse's waist, untucking his shirt from his trousers.

"Eager, are we?" the dandy teased.

"I said 'simple'. I didn't say anything about speed," Jehan panted back, his forehead leaning against his lover's. He seemed to hesitate for a second before adding: "I want you."

The playful tone was gone, replaced by something more intimate. Jehan wore his heart on his sleeve. It was a garment that suited him well. Montparnasse had always admired that about him. God knew _he_ would never manage to pull it off. He was of those who kept their hearts in the cages of their chests, but what could he do once a sweet poet had picked the lock? How could he blame such a charming intruder?

Jehan's cheeks were soft in his hands when Montparnasse cradled his face, pulling him down for a tender embrace. As Jehan went down, Montparnasse's hips went up, making his own desire obvious against the other's thigh. The touch sent a shiver through his body, hardening his budding erection. On top of him, Jehan rolled his hips as well. Montparnasse could feel him against his thigh, aroused, seeking the spark that would ignite him. A whimper crashed against his lips. Jehan's cheeks were burning in his palms. Here was the spark.

Montparnasse kept fuelling it avidly, his blood rushing with each thrust Jehan gave against him. Before the teasing grew old, he rolled them over, laying Jehan under him. Oh, the young man was a vision of poetry, alright. His braid had loosened, freeing the cascade of his hair. The soft waves were floating on the white sheets, set ablaze by the glow of the candles. All that glittered was not gold, but Montparnasse could do with copper. Jehan's eyes were burning bright too, darkened with lust and expectancy. The rest of his body was consumed by the same urges; his chest was heaving, his cock looked painfully hard against his trousers. Montparnasse's own urges became hard to ignore. He wanted to fuck him, to take him hard, senseless, to see his smooth face overcome by pleasure, driven lewd and wanton under him. But a different craving bloomed in his chest, overpowering the first one. He wanted to make _love,_ not to Jehan but _with_ Jehan. He wanted to feel the warmth of his arms around him, to give and receive, to feel that union of body and soul Jehan was seeking. He wanted to feel poetry.

Their shirts were discarded easily, tossed in the darkness of the room, never to be seen again until daylight. Their kisses were on a fine line between tender and wild, a mess skin contact did nothing to improve. Montparnasse lowered his lips down to Jehan's collarbone, adorning his neck with red gems. Jean Prouvaire had the skin of a lover, showing every kiss, every caress. The poet shivered as Montparnasse blew gently on one of his nipples. Montparnasse knew how sensitive Jehan was and played with it well. His tongue swirled gently around the bud before he took it between his lips, earning a heavy sigh. His hand cupped the outline of Jehan's cock and a much louder sound welcomed the touch. Montparnasse could make him come like that. He knew it. He had done it before. But he had bigger plans for the night. Still, he dwelled there for a moment, slipping his hand in Jehan's trouser, touching and stroking him in earnest. Whimpers accompanied every flick of his tongue.

"Parnasse..." Jehan called softly, making him look up.

If his mouth had stopped their teasing, his fingers were still going up and down his shaft.

"Yes?" he played along coyly.

Jehan took a deep breath, thrusting into Montparnasse's hand.

"I want you—I want you in my mouth."

Montparnasse bit his lip and let go of him. He lay on his back by Jehan's side, watching the latter free himself from his breeches. His breathing quickened at the sight of the naked body, like an adolescent blushed at the slightest patch of intimate skin. No matter how many times he'd seen Jehan naked, he would always relish the beauty of it. His own breeches were pulled down, exposing him. Kissing his way down, Jehan tickled his skin and took Montparnasse in his mouth.

Jehan's ministrations were always fascinatingly delicate, clashing with those Montparnasse was used to receive. His tongue was soft and warm, not showing the slightest hint of hurry. Melting into the sheets, Montparnasse closed his eyes and broke into a lascivious moan. He didn't have to look down to envision Jehan perfectly, his lashes downcast, his wet lips wrapped around the head of his cock, the tip of his tongue playing with the slit. Wayward strands of hair fell on his hips, the tickling sensation only adding to his pleasure. Jehan worked him harder and more sensitive, so much so that Montparnasse feared he'd let go of himself and spill there and then. As tempting as the thought was, he would save that for another time.

"Jehan... I―Come up here... Please..."

The warmth faded. Jehan returned to his side of the bed, looking at Montparnasse, his lips glistening. In a quick kiss, Montparnasse wiped off those stars. Turning towards the nightstand, he grabbed a vial of oil he had purposefully left there. That too, he had stolen. It was far more complicated to steal than tallow, but worth the risk. He wouldn't be caught dead using that unsophisticated slippery mess.

When he turned around, he found Jehan lying on his stomach.

"What are you doing?" he chuckled lightly.

The poet took the colour of his hair.

"I thought―I was told―Isn't it easier this way?"

Montparnasse smiled and put a couple of strands back behind Jehan's ear.

"It doesn't matter. I want to look into your eyes. You were the one who was talking about souls merging together."

"Look who's the poet now."

"I've spent too much time in your company."

Slowly, and blushing down to his shoulders, Jehan turned over, his back resting on the mattress. Crawling over him, Montparnasse spread his lover's legs and corrected his position, his thumbs pressing gently against his hip bones. Jehan's thighs shivered under his touch. Montparnasse knew how he felt: awkward and exposed. He had been there too, once. As far as environment went, Jehan's bed was much more comfortable than what Montparnasse had experienced. But there were some universal apprehensions that did not depend on the quality of the mattress. Jehan had enjoyed rather easy pleasures so far. Who was to tell he would enjoy this as well?

Montparnasse planted a kiss on his knee and took the vial. His fingers glistened from the oil he poured over his hand. Settled between Jehan's legs, his chest leant against the other's, Montparnasse introduced him to a new kind of touch. No sooner had his fingers brushed Jehan's entrance that the poet's breath hitched in his throat.

"Cold," he explained in a whisper before Montparnasse asked.

"It won't be in a second."

His touch was patient. Jehan did not look uncomfortable, but his reaction was milder than Montparnasse had expected from someone as sensitive as him. _He's waiting for more_ , the dandy figured. Slowly, he pushed a finger in. A small sound crept up Jehan's throat, more out of surprise than pain. Instinctively, he held onto Montparnasse's shoulder, no doubt seeking familiarity to balance the new sensation.

Tentative at first, Montparnasse's movements soon found a pace Jehan liked. The rolls of his wrist were calm, giving himself time to rediscover that body he knew well as a second finger joined the first and his lips fastened once again around Jehan's nipple. He knew what made him tick. In an instant, Jean Prouvaire melted under him in a warm sigh. He looked heavenly, with that peaceful glow flooding his face and that flicker of a smile on his lips. Absolutely heavenly. An exhilarating rush ran through Montparnasse at the sight, setting each and every one of his veins on fire.

The peaceful glow disappeared under an infinitely more lustful expression as Montparnasse grew more daring with his caresses. Jehan's hips were bucking with each thrust, looking for more. His sighs turned into moans, almost wordless pleas. Montparnasse was not going to have him beg for it. Not tonight. He pulled his fingers out and oiled himself up under Jehan's intent gaze. Enveloped in the warm and comfortable cocoon of his lover's arms, Montparnasse held the promise he had made the night before and brought them together.

He had never been one for clichés. He had never been one for grand syrupy romance either. But there was something about Jehan that made those things desirable. Up to a few months ago, Montparnasse would have scoffed at the idea of longing looks, of lingering kisses, of passion so great his heart was at a loss to contain it all. He was not laughing now. Jehan believed in those things, in merging bodies and souls, beauty beyond material goods, human goodness. And, for once, Montparnasse believed too. How could he do otherwise, when love and pleasure were overwhelming him at once?

Mindful of Jehan's needs, Montparnasse kept his thrusts gentle. He was aware of the nails grazing his back and of the hold tightening around his waist. Montparnasse could feel him all, like an extension of himself. A reassuring kiss flew just under Jehan's ear. His skin already tasted of salt from the heat of the embrace, adding itself to the cologne he usually wore. Montparnasse kissed his neck avidly all the same.

Pleasure came stealthily for Jehan, like a tide, each small wave adding to the other. What had started as a shiver grew into a whimper, then from a whimper to a moan, and before they knew it, every love sound was answering another. What a beautiful language than that of lovers. It was one of unabashed pleasure, of lips and tongues meeting, of bodies flushed one against the other. Montparnasse lost himself in it, adorning Jehan's skin with praises. His body had ceased to answer to his control. He felt it all, and he felt intensely. Jehan's chest was heaving erratically under his, the rest of his body squirming deliciously. There was a hand in his hair, holding him close, so close. All he could see were fragments and white flashes. The flame of a candle. Jehan's lips. The white sheets. Jehan's neck. The hair falling in front of his eyes. Jehan. Jehan. Jehan.

Jehan froze abruptly, holding on to Montparnasse. For the span of a second, the world stood still and the poet surrendered to pleasure. Drunk with ecstasy, Montparnasse was soon to follow, giving one last roll of hips and a raptured moan.

The rest was hazy. A thick mist clouded Montparnasse's mind and when he felt his body again, he was lying next to Jehan, his head rested against his lover's shoulder. His laboured breathing was reverberating in his ears and his heart was trying to throb its way out of his chest. Montparnasse lifted a heavy arm and put the palm of his hand over Jehan's heart. It was dancing with the same folly.

"Did you feel it?" he asked, his voice wheezing.

Jehan raised an eyebrow, visibly as drowsy as he was.

"Poetry," Montparnasse added.

There was a faint chuckle.

"Yes. Yes, I felt it. Did you?"

Montparnasse's hand followed the levee of Jehan's collarbone and the slope of his neck, tilting his head gently so that their eyes could meet.

"Yes, I did."

 

**Author's Note:**

> And there it is! Please, please, please, do comment and leave kudos if you liked it. I know it sounds silly, but it really does help creators to know what you loved and how the thing we created makes you feel. It's true for any fanmade art, but even more so for pairs that don't get that many stand alone fics! So please, never hesitate to give love to your local artists!
> 
> If you liked this piece, there's another one coming up tomorrow! Until then you can find me at [Just-French-Me-Up](http://just-french-me-up.tumblr.com/) on tumblr! Have a good day!


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